The Mechanics of Atonement
by memberoftheliterati
Summary: Finch knows that the Machine, like himself and Reese, is far from perfect. But working with it is the only thing that keeps him going these days, that and the hope of making up for the things he's done. Takes place after 1.7, "Witness." Oneshot.


_A/N: This story picks up where Episode 1.7, "Witness," left our heroes, standing at the ferry dock._

Finch stares after the retreating figure of Reese, the accusatory question ringing in his ears: _And how many of those numbers will come up because we saved one man's life?_ Reese is right, of course. But there was no way they could have known. Not even The Machine was that good. Not even Finch himself had been able to teach it that much. Because of that, he bore the blood of so many innocents on his hands. So many _somebodies_ he hadn't helped, whose deaths he had rationalized away by claiming that by foiling terrorist plots he was helping _everybody_—and wasn't that more important than _somebody_? Didn't millions of lives outweigh one life? Of course they did, he had told himself and his partner. Finch closes his eyes. What an idiot he had been, and even more so not to realize the flaw in his logic until it was too late. But, however late, he is atoning now. Inadvertently saving Elias' life is a blow, a hitch in his mission, another layer of guilt atop the older ones (they never seemed to fade, only to stack higher). But the only way he knows how to deal with this is to keep atoning, and his way to atone is to keep working on the numbers. He thinks all of this while watching Reese's retreating back, and for half a second is tempted to call out to the other man, to go after him and explain it all to him, to force him to come back. But he doesn't, and the urge is gone after a moment. If he needs to find Reese, he will, even without a cell phone. Right now it is better for Reese— better for both of them— to work out their guilt in their own ways. Maybe Reese will even come back on his own, without prompting, if he is left alone.

Finch makes his way back to the limousine, where the driver is standing respectfully and opens the door for him. When they arrive back at a street a block or so from the library-operations base, Finch instructs the driver to take the car to the garage. He has two men he pays to be on call to help him, whether his needs demand a driver or security. He delved thoroughly into their backgrounds before hiring them, making sure they were both discreet and in need of his generous paycheck. Inside, Finch climbs the stairs slowly, the twinge that started when he awkwardly pulled himself out of the limo worsening as he ascends. He hangs his coat on the rack and pauses, catching his breath. Because he is alone, he allows himself to press a hand to his back, grimacing. He limps over to the computers and lowers himself gingerly into his chair. There are painkillers in a bathroom cabinet down the hall, but he won't take one. When working a case, he takes them if he is having a bad enough day that he can't focus otherwise. But there is no case just now; besides, he's felt much worse than this.

He spends the rest of the day at the computers, waiting for a number and trying to do some research on the man who called himself Charlie Burton. On one screen, he idly keeps an eye on the surveillance cameras around some of Reese's favorite haunts, both old ones and the newer ones he's found since Finch got him cleaned up, including the entrance to the building where Finch has rented him an apartment. Finch doesn't see Reese, but he doesn't have the facial recognition feature on and he isn't trying very hard, watching only out of the corner of his eye. It is his way of attempting to respect Reese's privacy, and the fact that he wants to do so surprises him because, after all, he doesn't really trust Reese. Yes, he knows everything cyberspace has to offer about him, but knowing someone's history and knowing the person are two very different things. Finch learned that the hard way. They have only been working together for a few weeks, and it will take far longer than that to be sure Reese is trustworthy, if indeed he can ever be sure. Finch does not trust easily. _Right?_ The unwanted question echoes faintly in Finch's mind and he buries himself further in his research.

It is nearly eleven when, with no new numbers, Finch decides to call it a night. He turns off the screens, but not the computers themselves, and slips into his coat, buttoning against the cold night air. He could call for a driver, but he prefers to walk whenever possible. One affords as much anonymity as the other. He can remain unseen behind the tinted windows of a limo, but even in New York City such a vehicle making the same routes might be noticed, especially when they are not the routes a limo is generally expected to take. One more pedestrian among the myriad, however, will draw no attention. Even with his obvious limp, he is not likely to attract more than a passing glance of pity that he neither deserves nor wants. For the most part, Finch has learned to avoid catching such looks. The only other danger of being a pedestrian in his condition is the possibility of being sighted as easy prey for thieves, but as he never carries anything he cannot afford to lose and would offer no resistance (sometimes, Finch wonders if this would be true even if he were physically strong enough to stand a chance, but he thinks it probably is), the odds of serious harm at the hands of such are relatively small.

He stops at the diner, the same one whose eggs Benedict he recommended to Reese, and orders a chicken salad to go. The town house he (for the majority of the time, now) lives in— _not_ the same one where he met with Detective Carter— is about four blocks from there. It is in one of the older neighborhoods in Manhattan, once home to the very wealthy but now thoroughly middle-class. It is his childhood home, but the last person who would have been able to connect the dots back to the name he held then has been dead for over a year now, so it is the best-suited of his several houses for hiding in plain sight.

He pulls himself up the steps, because the aches which had settled into the background while he sat motionless at the computer had returned in full force during his walk, and lets himself into an immaculate, stylish hallway. He employs a housekeeper, because, like well-tailored suits, a well-kept house is something he cannot quite give up, and because it is nothing out of the ordinary for an upper-middle-class bachelor businessman to do so. Her name is Jenna Martin, and just as with the chauffeurs, he delved deeply into her background before hiring her. Though she will have been gone many hours earlier (in fact, Finch rarely sees her), he appreciates the neatness she has left in her wake. But the contentment doesn't last long, because when he sits down to eat and some of his pain eases, he remembers Reese's justified anger of that morning. His insides writhe with the thought of how much more dangerous a place Brighton Beach is tonight, because once again he failed to see the bigger picture. He eats a few more bites of the chicken salad before putting it with the other take-out containers in the fridge. He leans against the cool white door for a moment with his forehead against the handle, all his weight on his left leg. One more flight of stairs, then he can take a shower and let the hot water appease his rebellious body. His rebellious mind, on the other hand, will not be so easily bribed into quiet.

By the time the heat and steam have worked a reasonable amount of magic on his neck and back, Finch's thoughts have gotten from _Reese is certainly right about the Machine failing to capture the bigger picture _to_ Are we even doing any good, in the long run? _It's been a fairly constant question in his life, since before he started trying to work the numbers. He asked it when the government approached his partner and the latter first pitched the idea of the Machine to him in turn. And again when the federal agents asked him to teach the Machine to separate the data into two lists— relevant to national security and irrelevant to national security. He asked it when his partner confronted him about those very lists, and again when he had woken in the hospital to find out that same man was dead, and Finch's own world turned upside down. Only the last of those times had he ever answered the question in the negative. Even now, as he turns the tap off and steps carefully from the shower, steadying himself on a grab handle, he has to admit that he believes that he— and Reese— are doing at least _some _good. He isn't as confident about it tonight as he was after helping Zoe or Judge Gates or Megan Tilman. But the small conviction somewhere inside him is enough. It has to be.

Finch pulls on pajamas, brushes his teeth, and stands with the cabinet over the sink open, debating with himself. The shelf in front of him holds three small orange bottles, containing the combination of medication required for him to sleep an unbroken eight hours. One holds painkillers, to quiet his body; another sleeping pills, to quiet his mind; a third beta blockers, to quiet his dreams (_nightmares_, Finch thinks). Usually, when he and Reese have just finished a case, he allows himself to take all three for a night. But the resolution of this case isn't a victory, and he hasn't really earned it this time. In the end, he takes only one of the sleeping pills, swallowing it with a quick gulp of water. This way, he won't have to think for a couple hours.

The chemicals will take twenty minutes or so to work their way through his system, so Finch settles himself against the headboard with some pillows at his back and the book from his bedside table (tonight, Huxley's _Brave New World_). He reads until sleep pulls insistently at his eyelids— by now he is well-attuned to when the medication is really working— so that there is as little time as possible left for more thoughts of numbers and Reese and Elias (_guilt, in other words_, his subconscious summarizes). Then he glances at the clock (half-past midnight), puts the book back down on the nightstand, and lays his glasses on top of it, switching off his lamp so that the blurry room turns dark. He slides down awkwardly, his breath catching a little (steam and heat can only do so much), making sure his neck is on the specially molded pillow that supports it. He focuses on the mild discomfort of his body, another technique to avoid thought (_guilt_), waiting for the drug-assisted oblivion.

* * *

><p><em>Finch sat before the computers cluttering the desk in his study, frowning down at the picture before him. He knew already that he'd have to get a new place to use as an office of sorts, that he couldn't keep all his information on the numbers at home, for both security and sheer space reasons. He was looking into that, but in the meantime… Emily Glenn. 35, widow, two children. Department store sales manager. As far as Finch could tell, she was leading a perfectly ordinary life, and yet the Machine gave him her number. He had searched the Internet for clues for days. He had hacked into her cell phone records and the security footage at the store where she worked, but found nothing that indicated the danger he knew she was in. He threw the photo down on the desk, disgusted with himself. He wanted to <em>_do__ something, something more than gather information to sit uselessly on his hard drive. He thought about following her, observing her at work, trying to learn her routine to see if there was an anomaly somewhere, but— he glanced at the crutches, still beside his chair after a month out of the hospital. According to his physical therapist, he'd need them for another few weeks. Until he could move better, following anyone was out of the question. Sighing in frustration, he shoved the chair away from the desk, grabbed the detested crutches, and heaved himself up. It was a few hours past dawn now, and he'd been awake since before it. He'd go through Emily's texts again after breakfast, see if there was anything he'd missed, and watch for her on the security cameras at work, making sure she was safe at least during those hours. _

_Finch stopped by the front door on the way to the kitchen and opened it, picking up the paper on his doorstep with difficulty. He made toast and tea for himself, which was about the most he'd been able to manage since his release from the hospital. He hissed as let himself into the seat at the kitchen table, leaning his crutches against the counter an arm's length away. It had been three months, and he still wasn't used to the surges of pain along his spinal column. Would he ever be? He took a bite of toast and unfolded the newspaper. A glance was all it took to see the headline: BLOOMINGDALES MANAGER RAPED, MURDERED. Below it was a photo identical to the one lying on Finch's desk. He scanned the story. Emily had been assaulted and pulled into an alley on her way from the store to the parking garage down the block after her shift. The man had been lying in wait for her. Reportedly, she had screamed, but no one had intervened. The perpetrator had not been caught, and eyewitnesses gave only the vaguest of descriptions. _

_Finch's insides turned to Jell-o and then lead as he lurched to his feet, thinking of nothing but getting away from the awful story in front of him. How had he not been able to figure out she had a stalker? He started to stumble away from the table, needing to be anywhere else. But he'd forgotten about his crutches and he couldn't balance himself without them yet. After a step he wobbled and fell, hard, on the tile floor. The fire that raced along his nerves matched the one inside his head._

* * *

><p>Finch wakes in a cold sweat. He sits up, keying a fresh sheen to bead as his muscles protest the movement. It is always the worst just after he wakes up, or at least that's what he tells himself, to make the rest of the day more manageable. He puts his glasses on and looks at the clock. It is only half past four, but he knows he will not get back to sleep. Constant tiredness, like constant pain and constant guilt, is something he's learned to live with. He pushes himself up against the bedside table and stands still a minute, closing his eyes and holding his breath until the spasm passes. The first thing he does in the bathroom is swallow some painkillers. After that and another shower which washes the stickiness from him, he can no longer avoid remembering the dream. Flashes of it run before his mind's eye as he dresses in one of his suits.<p>

Nearly all of Finch's dreams are memories of his failures. They're never the same, night to night, but they never allow him to forget, either. Each night he is forced to relive a situation where he should have seen the bigger picture and didn't. He thinks that in time, no doubt, Elias and the talk with Reese at the pier will take their place among his archive of nightmares. As he fastens his tie into place, Finch reflects that he can't remember the last time he had dreamless sleep without the aid of beta-blockers. Maybe those first few days after waking up in the hospital, when the morphine made it impossible to keep his mind clear? Certainly not since then. He thinks for a moment that maybe tonight he'll cheat and take one of the beta-blockers; he'd dearly like a night's worth of sleep that is actually restful. But he knows he won't. Not until he's earned the reprieve by helping another number.

Dawn is beginning to creep over the city as Finch makes the walk back to the library, taking advantage of the painkiller's effects, because he won't take another dose when it wears off. He's almost there when he spots an early street vendor, from whom he buys tea and a bagel. Minutes later, sipping the hot beverage as he struggles up the stairs to the library, he wonders if Reese will try bringing him coffee again today. Finch wants him to, even though he doesn't drink it, he is surprised to find. He also suspects that Reese won't.

* * *

><p>"Chinese?"<p>

Finch turns the desk chair around when he hears the soft voice. Reese is standing a few feet away with a tray of take-out cartons. Finch hadn't heard him coming up the stairs. He doesn't understand how Reese can be so silent, but he supposes that it's one of the reasons why the younger man is still alive. He doesn't move as he says, "I see you've decided to come back." It comes out a little more severely than he intended. But only a little.

Reese looks past him to the computer screens for a time. Finch waits, but in the end Reese only puts the food down on top of some papers on a table below the window, and says, "Come on and eat, Harold. You've probably been in here all day long again. Did you remember to exercise?" He has the audacity to smirk.

Finch doesn't dignify the last comment with a response, but he does push himself to his feet, grabbing a bag off the desk. As usual, he subconsciously hesitates a half-second before stepping on his right leg, bracing himself for the spike of pain. As usual, Reese's eyes immediately slide somewhere else, pretending not to notice. Finch holds the bag out. "Actually, I ran some errands this afternoon. Your new cell phone. Try not to break this one for a while."

"Occupational hazard." Reese sets the phone next to the tray and begins opening cartons. "Didn't know what you liked, so I got some different things."

Finch takes the orange chicken with rice and heads back to the chair by the desk, but doesn't turn it toward the screens. Reese takes another of the cartons and crosses the room to sit in the other desk chair. They eat in silence for several minutes. Finch is still somewhat surprised that Reese has returned so soon without having to be hunted down, and that he has even brought a peace offering (a better one than coffee, no less). Maybe he has underestimated Reese after all; maybe Reese can see past the Machine's flaws and learn to make the best of what they have to work with. Finch thinks about his own myriad flaws, and wonders if Reese will be able to see past those too if he—okay, this is Reese, so _when_ he—discovers them. Finch knows he isn't much to work with, that he walked into worse sins with his eyes wide open than Reese did while being tricked by the Agency. He surreptitiously glances at Reese as he lifts a bite of rice. He is a little alarmed to find out how much, already, he hopes that Reese _can_ look past all the flaws. And it's not because he knows how difficult it would be to track down another partner with Reese's skill set, and how much he would hate being helpless again in the meantime. Not entirely. He wants Reese not only to trust him, but to _accept_ him. He hasn't wanted that from anybody in a very long time. What is this partnership doing to him?

Finch puts his empty carton aside and turns to Reese. The soldier has two empty cartons beside him and is staring at the screen that displays the numbers when the Machine spits them out, but there is nothing there just now. There will be soon, Finch is sure. He speaks Reese's name, softly, because Reese deserves to know. The other man turns to face him and Finch says, "You're right. About Elias, and about the Machine. About us. I know I promised you a way to be there in time, but I also promised never to lie to you. And the truth is that we're going to make mistakes, because the Machine can't solve everything for us. We're not always going to be there in time, or see the bigger picture the right way. I'm sorry if that's not what you signed up for."

Reese shrugs. "It's never exactly what you signed up for, is it? At least you admit to it."

Finch notices for the first time that there are circles under Reese's eyes. Maybe he's not the only one who didn't sleep much last night. "Is that why you came back?" Reese shakes his head, but that's not good enough. Finch has to be sure, needs to know whether this is just a fluke or if Reese really is committed. "Why did you come back?"

Reese meets Finch's eyes. "Because you were right, too." A soft _beep_ sounds and he turns his head toward the computers again. "We have work to do."

Finch also turns his upper body to look toward the screens, more relieved by Reese's answer than he will ever allow himself to express. There's a new number blinking, waiting for their attention.

_A/N: Finally, I've managed to finish this fic, though I actually started working on it over Thanksgiving, before real life intervened. Mostly meant to be a character sketch of Finch, so any constructive criticism on that front (or any other) is welcomed. Reviews appreciated and responded to!  
>*Update: I've gone through and edited this, tweaking several sentences on the thorough advice kindly offered by SeveRemus. My thanks to her! <em>


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